This is probably a week ago when I tell my wife I'll be right back. I take the elevator down and walk out the iron gate toward the corner store. The topic going round tonight is one of the more gruesome sexual assaults any of us can imagine and the justice system's yawn of a response. I start thinking back on my time in Brazil and the rare spurts of violence I've witnessed when right there, at the end of the block, I see a woman get hit by a car.
It's a deep, dull thud accompanied by the sight of her three or four feet up and then on her back on the asphalt staring at the black sky. A crowd circles her by the time I get there. She is about 50, alive and twitching, muttering something that I can't make out, but sounds incoherent. Both sides of her face are in the hands of the woman, fifteen years younger, who has just changed her life forever. I think that of the two, it's her face I'll remember longer.
The crowd keeps the older woman stationary. After another minute, a cop walks up. I go into the store, buy soda and walk past the scene again. I return through the gate, up the elevator, through the door, put my head in my wife's lap and sob.
This is the coldest week of the year here in Sao Paulo. And in thinking about it, the coldest of my life. Like most Brazilians, we don't have A/C or heat. Each day, the sunny 65-degree skies give way to nights in the mid-40s--our apartment just a few degrees warmer than the outside air. There's usually one of these weeks every year, I just don't remember it being this bad. Every night, we stack the bed with four or five quilts, put on sweatshirts and stocking caps and hold on.
My days this week are spent in the cells of a spreadsheet, carefully planning sessions for this conference I'm attending next week at Stanford University. I park my socked feet in the warm beam of afternoon sunlight idling its way across our floor and plug away zombielike. The highlight of my afternoon is an eight minute vacation to the shower. At dark we order food or go to O'Malley's to drink and watch the Warriors lose winnable games. The room of body heat ends up being just as much a draw as the action on the court.
I return home to a home absent of that feeling you're supposed to get on frigid nights: Warmth. Relief. The assuredness that you've left the Winter out there. We're greeted instead by dark hours that seem to have waited up for us. We come close under the covers. The sun finally rises. Then we read about some guy who walked up to a woman signing autographs and put three bullets in her.
The store that we're counting on having heaters is sold out. We circle the mall, jackets off, for a half hour. We split some McDonalds and try one last place in the basement. We're in luck. They've got one space heater left--their display model--and we buy it.
I come home to the reminder of just how disappointing space heaters are. I don't know how hot they're supposed to get, but I take it as a bad sign that I can rest my legs on it. We plug it in and stare at it like that might somehow motivate it. I wheel it over beside the bed, double check none of the covers can get to it and bunker myself. The damn thing probably adds like one legitimate degree. What a waste. Then we wake up to 49 dead bodies covering the city of my birth.
By day five or six, I realize the cold's real punishment is how much it wears you down. The small fits of shivering string together after a while. I've got less energy, less enthusiasm. We don't smile as much. We have our sweatshirts and our blankets, our hours of short sunlight, our heater I keep believing will make a difference. It's not enough. The sun inevitably sets. The cold returns. I guess what makes me the maddest is it's taken me this long to realize there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I can almost walk past the corner store now without looking at the invisible x on the pavement. Skies are a little warmer each day. On the couch, hoodie on, banging out last minute e-mails, I thumb my phone from the Sao Paulo forecast over to Menlo Park. Eighty seven degrees and sunny. I'm ready to absorb it all.
Hopefully it will be enough. Like everyone else, I'm ready for this week to end. For this house to feel the way it should. To pack this heater away in the closet. To not look across the crowd at O'Malley's and think which way I would run. To go on this trip, walk past a dumpster and not wonder if this one is different from all the rest.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Thursday, February 11, 2016
The Shape of Carnaval
By sunset Tuesday, it's no longer a list of days or parades. All of that has diluted down into a mess and hardened over again. Little memories shuffled up. You don't need alcohol or drugs to do this even though you can get them by snapping your fingers like this.
By late Tuesday, the senses are already naturally overloaded. The packs of people stepping over one another. The aerosol cans of glitter and green foam that everyone assures you will come right out. The heat.
Like us or anything else that stays in the sun this long, it all molds together until you can't tell this thing from that one. But it's definitely all in there and when I hit it with a hammer, here's what I can tell you about Carnaval.
Mark says we're going to have brunch at his place and then walk to the bloco. The 11 am start time is pushed back to 12. We arrive around 1. Bread, deli meats and cheek kisses as folks keep strolling in. Irina gets out little tubes of paint and woah, she's really good at this. One guy's forearm becomes a snake. One guy's chest, a garden. One girl's bicep, a flag. My shoulder becomes Irina's face.
It's probably 95 degrees out and no one's phone works because there's 10,000 of us standing in front of the park. I try over and over to call Evan. Dani wants to hear the band, but the sound system on their truck is only good when you're beside it or in front of it. We're behind it. My phone's hot enough to start a campfire. I stand on a fence to try to see Evan. A husband sits his wife down beside us. She's not looking good.
Some people in the group need to pee, so we commandeer the traffic circle in front of the store to pass the time. One guy has two bells that he hits to no rhythm or melody and the Brazilians among us sing old Brazilian songs. We morph into a conga line. Out of everything, this story has the most variations depending on who tells it.
The Panthers lose the Super Bowl. One guy at our table has some North Carolina flags. Turns out we know a few of the same people from Raleigh.
There's probably another 10,000 people at this David Bowie-themed bloco. Women dance two stories up atop the truck and something about their swaying is dystopian like that nightclub early in the Matrix. I'm trying to find Tah and Emily and them and my phone is getting hotter. Men pee against any two pieces of structure that form a corner.
Night after night of sleeping on the covers. Our oscillating fan rattles away serving leftover air.
A mother walks by holding the hand of her four-year-old daughter. Tears pour down her little face.
We make it back to Mark's just beating the rain. His speakers are insanely loud. We jump around to Rihanna.
Five floors up, a couple holds out the window some watermelon-sized water balloons. Everyone goes wild. A group of guys lift their friend up and spread her out--one with each arm and leg kind of thing. The couple high up steady their outstretched arms. The balloon locks in over her exposed stomach and they let go. I think there's no way this isn't going to hurt.
A girl points at me as I scooch through the crowd and says, "You. Come here." I smile and wave her off, my wedding band hitting the sunlight. "No, no, no," she says, "YOU. Come here." Her friend holds out a joint. I use all my goodbyes and keep moving.
None of our usual pizza places are delivering. Dani falls asleep on the bed. Evan closes his eyes on the couch.
Even though I end up carrying one friend on my arm for twenty-some minutes, it's still one of the best parties I can remember.
The bloco ends at a giant square where a massive concert stage is about to awaken. The sun creeps past the skyscrapers around us. Centro is not where I want to be at almost any hour, but especially not this one. I'm the only person in the group looking around. I distract the homeless-looking guy trying to talk to us with some of my drink and work my way out of the crowd, up some old steps, to the next road. My cell is cooking and the stray cabs occasionally wandering this way keep getting snatched by parties further up the line. A small family huddles at the bus stop. Bodies of the less fortunate call it a night on mattresses of cardboard. I hit the taxi app on my phone. The music a few blocks away can't compete with the silence around me. I look down at my battery and hope it's got enough.
By late Tuesday, the senses are already naturally overloaded. The packs of people stepping over one another. The aerosol cans of glitter and green foam that everyone assures you will come right out. The heat.
Like us or anything else that stays in the sun this long, it all molds together until you can't tell this thing from that one. But it's definitely all in there and when I hit it with a hammer, here's what I can tell you about Carnaval.
Mark says we're going to have brunch at his place and then walk to the bloco. The 11 am start time is pushed back to 12. We arrive around 1. Bread, deli meats and cheek kisses as folks keep strolling in. Irina gets out little tubes of paint and woah, she's really good at this. One guy's forearm becomes a snake. One guy's chest, a garden. One girl's bicep, a flag. My shoulder becomes Irina's face.
It's probably 95 degrees out and no one's phone works because there's 10,000 of us standing in front of the park. I try over and over to call Evan. Dani wants to hear the band, but the sound system on their truck is only good when you're beside it or in front of it. We're behind it. My phone's hot enough to start a campfire. I stand on a fence to try to see Evan. A husband sits his wife down beside us. She's not looking good.
Some people in the group need to pee, so we commandeer the traffic circle in front of the store to pass the time. One guy has two bells that he hits to no rhythm or melody and the Brazilians among us sing old Brazilian songs. We morph into a conga line. Out of everything, this story has the most variations depending on who tells it.
The Panthers lose the Super Bowl. One guy at our table has some North Carolina flags. Turns out we know a few of the same people from Raleigh.
There's probably another 10,000 people at this David Bowie-themed bloco. Women dance two stories up atop the truck and something about their swaying is dystopian like that nightclub early in the Matrix. I'm trying to find Tah and Emily and them and my phone is getting hotter. Men pee against any two pieces of structure that form a corner.
Night after night of sleeping on the covers. Our oscillating fan rattles away serving leftover air.
A mother walks by holding the hand of her four-year-old daughter. Tears pour down her little face.
We make it back to Mark's just beating the rain. His speakers are insanely loud. We jump around to Rihanna.
Five floors up, a couple holds out the window some watermelon-sized water balloons. Everyone goes wild. A group of guys lift their friend up and spread her out--one with each arm and leg kind of thing. The couple high up steady their outstretched arms. The balloon locks in over her exposed stomach and they let go. I think there's no way this isn't going to hurt.
A girl points at me as I scooch through the crowd and says, "You. Come here." I smile and wave her off, my wedding band hitting the sunlight. "No, no, no," she says, "YOU. Come here." Her friend holds out a joint. I use all my goodbyes and keep moving.
None of our usual pizza places are delivering. Dani falls asleep on the bed. Evan closes his eyes on the couch.
Even though I end up carrying one friend on my arm for twenty-some minutes, it's still one of the best parties I can remember.
The bloco ends at a giant square where a massive concert stage is about to awaken. The sun creeps past the skyscrapers around us. Centro is not where I want to be at almost any hour, but especially not this one. I'm the only person in the group looking around. I distract the homeless-looking guy trying to talk to us with some of my drink and work my way out of the crowd, up some old steps, to the next road. My cell is cooking and the stray cabs occasionally wandering this way keep getting snatched by parties further up the line. A small family huddles at the bus stop. Bodies of the less fortunate call it a night on mattresses of cardboard. I hit the taxi app on my phone. The music a few blocks away can't compete with the silence around me. I look down at my battery and hope it's got enough.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Things That Worry Me More Than Zika
If you've seen snow in the last month, the Zika virus should not bother you. You're gonna make it, son. You weren't worried about Bird Flu, Small Pox, Swine Flu or Ebola, so, why start now? Or maybe you were, in which case anxiety fuels your life and I bet you'd make for a decent comedy writer.
Here in Sao Paulo, we've had about the same number of confirmed cases as the US. Here's what keeps me up at night more than Zika:
-When I'm walking past the lady that maintains our building and she takes the initiative in helping me practice Portuguese.
-Netflix's vow to block VPNs.
-I can't say no to soda.
-Bacterial meningitis.
-When I go for a run, that one tree that's always full of pigeons.
-"The Big One" that will inevitably destroy the US west coast this century.
-Bernie Sanders.
-Everything I've learned from the show Scam City.
-When I'm waiting for a movie to start and I'm afraid someone else will sit on my row, blocking the exit.
-Segredos de Minas doesn't deliver on Mondays (Americans: Think Sundays and Chick-Fil-A. It's always Sunday when you want Chick-Fil-A).
-Death.
-My inability to fantasize about hitting the Powerball without factoring in legal fees and destroyed friendships.
-If Adele can be the top selling artist of the decade but can't write a happy hit song, what's the point of going on?
-The fact that I honestly don't know if I have one or two college degrees.
-Turning 2̶0̶, 2̶3̶, 2̶6̶, 3̶0̶, 34.
-The number of people running small businesses that read about Steve Jobs and decide, "Hey, I'll just become an asshole."
-UNCW making March Madness this year and their first game being on the day I'm traveling.
-Any time someone is really smart, good looking AND funny.
-Getting a great idea and then immediately thinking about the tens of thousands of others that have probably thought it.
-People not visiting Brazil when they really, really should.
Here in Sao Paulo, we've had about the same number of confirmed cases as the US. Here's what keeps me up at night more than Zika:
-When I'm walking past the lady that maintains our building and she takes the initiative in helping me practice Portuguese.
-Netflix's vow to block VPNs.
-I can't say no to soda.
-Bacterial meningitis.
-When I go for a run, that one tree that's always full of pigeons.
-"The Big One" that will inevitably destroy the US west coast this century.
-Bernie Sanders.
-Everything I've learned from the show Scam City.
-When I'm waiting for a movie to start and I'm afraid someone else will sit on my row, blocking the exit.
-Segredos de Minas doesn't deliver on Mondays (Americans: Think Sundays and Chick-Fil-A. It's always Sunday when you want Chick-Fil-A).
-Death.
-My inability to fantasize about hitting the Powerball without factoring in legal fees and destroyed friendships.
-If Adele can be the top selling artist of the decade but can't write a happy hit song, what's the point of going on?
-The fact that I honestly don't know if I have one or two college degrees.
-Turning 2̶0̶, 2̶3̶, 2̶6̶, 3̶0̶, 34.
-The number of people running small businesses that read about Steve Jobs and decide, "Hey, I'll just become an asshole."
-UNCW making March Madness this year and their first game being on the day I'm traveling.
-Any time someone is really smart, good looking AND funny.
-Getting a great idea and then immediately thinking about the tens of thousands of others that have probably thought it.
-People not visiting Brazil when they really, really should.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
An Update
In all honesty, and I never told my wife this, my big reason for wanting to move here was to go ahead and do the time. Dani and I met in Virginia. We dated there. Got engaged there. We laughed, and we played, and we learned each other, and I dried her homesick tears many a night. Marriage is a partnership and I was determined not to let our first big decision end with me on the take.
We would go to Brazil because then she would have that. It could never be hung over my head. I would make sacrifices. She would see the graffiti and litter-covered city again through new American-pampered eyes and then we would turn back. Sure, it would be an adventure for me, but that was secondary. I needed her to get this out of her system. It would probably take a year.
And then some time passed. Next month will mark two years. Still no end in sight.
Not that Brazil isn't making a case for us to leave. Word from back home is the Zika virus has even the snowed-in in a panic. The economy continues its dig toward the Earth's core. The upcoming Olympics are poised to be a national embarrassment. The historic drought from last year is under control, but at the cost of record-setting rainfall and floods. The poor are getting poorer. Times are tough.
Crime is up. A group and I went around the table earlier this week naming our scariest moment in Brazil. I've got a handful of friends that have had guns in their faces, but none were at this dinner and the stories came off pretty tame. We said our goodbyes and went home.
I got a message from one a half hour later. He and his fiancee witnessed a shooting break out on the way home. An argument between some guys escalated to about eight shots fired. The men turned and ran in their direction. My friends hid in the shadows. Someone limped by their hiding spot, pistol in hand.
I'm diligent with Dani on minimizing our risks. The routes that we walk are short and populated. Cabs take us everywhere after dark. There are dozens of city-sized chunks in this megalopolis I know I will never step foot in.
Yet, you can only prepare so much. The unknown has its way of always outdoing itself. And so sitting at a stoplight the other night and seeing a man pop up at the open window of the car in front of us, then hold onto their door as they tried to drive away, puts its hooks in you pretty deep. No one wins when your wife says she's going out for a walk during daylight hours and you argue with her.
One prediction Dani and I have always felt pretty certain of is this will be our only time in Sao Paulo. Her family lives here, but their longterm plans don't and neither of us can see ourselves putting up with all the bullshit as we get older. That being said, the one-and-done approach makes you appreciate the place so much more. Like college, you know you're on the clock and this particular version of you will never live again.
Mix that in with a comfortable daily schedule, a growing list of drop dead restaurants and a historic exchange rate and its easy to accept all the other problems as collateral damage. When I moved here I only really knew Dani, but now I look around our occasional for-no-reason barbecues and see 50-some friends. Restaurants like Le Jazz and EMA torture me daily. The weather is warm. There's the social currency that's often yielded just from being a gringo. And there's a real magic in going out with a group, grabbing the check off a table covered in bottles and paying the whole US $30 yourself.
I can't imagine the tidy little life I could have chose.
The update is we're doing just fine. I'm still working. Still writing a ton. I run about three 5Ks a week. I may finally pull off a tan. Carnaval is about to start. I found a place that sells Cherry Coke. There's Ben and Jerry's here too. Until we're the ones hiding in those shadows, waiting for death to walk past, I don't see us buying those final plane tickets anytime soon.
An older couple in my church in Virginia used to live in Sao Paulo in the 1960s. They ask me for updates whenever I'm back in town. The Sao Paulo they describe was very different from what I see now, but one statement the lady always underlines holds true: "You cry when you get there and you cry when you leave."
I did and I will.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Three Months of Travel: Istanbul
Location: Istanbul, Turkey
Duration: 5 days
Population: 14,377,019
It's Europe. It's Asia. It's the Middle East. It's none of these. Prayers are called from the minarets starting at 5:00 am, but you can't hear them inside the nightclubs. The men are hairy and proud. The women are bronzed and beautiful. Salads are strange. There are burkas and there are midriffs. The state of the art metro system runs below cobblestone streets. Traffic is unbearable. There's basically no crime if you don't count taxi drivers preying on tourists with slight of hand. It's not really clean. Not really dirty. Not really fun. Not really boring. It is the incomparable city. It is the center of the world.
Duration: 5 days
Population: 14,377,019
It's Europe. It's Asia. It's the Middle East. It's none of these. Prayers are called from the minarets starting at 5:00 am, but you can't hear them inside the nightclubs. The men are hairy and proud. The women are bronzed and beautiful. Salads are strange. There are burkas and there are midriffs. The state of the art metro system runs below cobblestone streets. Traffic is unbearable. There's basically no crime if you don't count taxi drivers preying on tourists with slight of hand. It's not really clean. Not really dirty. Not really fun. Not really boring. It is the incomparable city. It is the center of the world.
By the Bosphorus on the European side. Over there across the bridge, Asia.
You can smoke pretty much anywhere in Istanbul. It was kind of cool to see ashtrays on tables again.
A typical salad. It's like ten different things going on. I can identify about four of them. I think I enjoyed as many.
There are lots of street cats in Istanbul. Here are a couple of sweet boys.
At the historic Blue Mosque built in 1616. You have to take your shoes off and carry them around with you in a plastic bag. Women have to cover their heads to enter. You can Google to see what the inside looks like, but I'm pretty sure it can't be fully captured on any camera.
Istanbul.
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